Summer Tales
by Snommis
Summary: This will be a collection of small stories, each one separate and complete, revolving around short scenarios involving mainly Sherlock and John. The first story contains a kiss. The next a weinberg snail. Among other things. One-shot collection. Pretty much all genres.
1. Love

**A/N: **I wanted a place to put shorter, more lighthearted stuff, which is exactly what I'll do here. I'm not quite sure about what will end up in these small stories as I go along, so no guarantees for anything, I'm afraid.

And if anyone's interested, the ballet I was 'inspired' by is called _Infra_. More specifically, it was the very beautiful pas de deux, which can be viewed on YouTube through the following link: watch?v=CNQOxf7-xZo

* * *

Right. The Royal Opera House. Modern ballet. Some multi award-wining choreographer or other. With Sherlock. Not on a case, no, but because Sherlock 'had a tune stuck in his head'. And it was 'insufferable'. And he 'needed air'. Right.

"You could at least have let me change into something more appropriate."

"What for?"

"Because people dress up for these kind of things."

In truth it wasn't even that bad. There were a lot of young people present. The atmosphere was relaxed. Still, John felt he was rather underdressed for the occasion. Especially next to Sherlock's black suit.

"Dull."

"Some of us actually don't take every single social convention as a personal offense."

"Dull."

The lights darkened and the deep murmur of hundreds of people talking quietly died immediately.

The curtain rose, a single dancer standing half in shadow on the dark stage.

A few skeptic minutes passed before a single violin pierced the air, accompanying the now two dancers on the stage. This was the reason he had been dragged along. This was the tune that Sherlock had stuck in his head. That he had been unable to find anywhere on the Internet in its entirety. That he was apparently intent on committing to memory.

It was beautiful. Hauntingly so.

He turned towards Sherlock, wanting for some reason to convey how wrong he had been to even have considered staying in that evening, only to find that Sherlock wasn't seeing a single thing. He sat, completely still, with his eyes closed.

John could just make out his expression in the semi-darkness. It was every bit as haunting as what was happening on the stage.

A small frown creased Sherlock's brow, tense lines surrounding his eyes. The slow, melancholic tunes might as well have come directly from him; they were so clearly mirrored in his features. Words like _sorrow_ and _longing_ and _beauty_ came to mind.

Whoever claimed that the man beside him had no emotions, had no heart – among those Sherlock himself – were wrong. They were so incredibly wrong. If they could see him now, if he could see himself…

There was _too much_ emotion reflected in Sherlock's still face. Watching it felt like a punch in the gut. It physically hurt to look at and before he had made a conscious decision to do so his hand had slipped into Sherlock's and he was leaning closer to him, whispering.

"Open your eyes."

And he did, still not watching the ballet. Instead, Sherlock's eyes settled on his for a long moment before flickering down, taking in their loosely clasped hands resting on his leg.

If he had not been watching so intently, John would have said that he was imagining it. That Sherlock's face didn't actually crumple a little for the briefest moment. That it was a trick of the darkness surrounding them. That it was the intense atmosphere distorting his perception.

As it was, John was watching Sherlock's face with undivided attention and he did see. He very much saw.

Just like reaching out and holding on to Sherlock's hand, reaching out with his free hand and curling fingers around Sherlock's cheek happened without any conscious effort. Sherlock jerked slightly under his touch, but did not pull away.

John leant sideways in his plush seat, closing the short gap and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock's.

The sound that escaped from somewhere in the back of Sherlock's throat was small and soft. Almost inaudible, yet deafening in its vulnerability.

Sherlock's free hand cupped the back of his neck, holding him in place as he was kissed back with intent. Sherlock's easy acquiescence felt like another punch in the gut, leaving behind gnawing tendrils of something a lot like guilt. He would have to examine that later.

John allowed himself another second of basking in how warm, how _right_, Sherlock's lips felt against his before he pulled back. It was not that dark, after all, and he could feel how easy it would be to lose himself completely in the sensation.

Looking into his best friend's wide, earnest eyes an automatic smile tucked at his mouth. He suddenly felt almost giddy, a heady sense of relief and endless opportunity mixing with a warmth that seemed intent on spreading throughout his every cell and nerve.

After a few moments, Sherlock returned his smile with a small, hesitant one of his own.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, entwining his fingers with Sherlock's before he looked back towards the stage.


	2. Pride

As they stood observing the two dozen people, all dressed in black, conversing and drinking tea and scotch and eating small refreshments in the vast garden of their childhood home, Sherlock had a small epiphany about his brother. It was one that made him smirk a little.

What he had realised just then was that the umbrella had been an insurance against old age.

Mycroft had, at least in part, carried it around with him so that now where he would actually benefit from leaning against his ever-present prop (even Sherlock could no longer deny that he himself was going rather grey around the temples and Mycroft had gone both quite grey and puffy) it would not seem as an admittance of age or deterioration. It would simply be business as usual. Vanity really was one of the less flattering traits running strongly in their family.

"I think it was a successful service," Mycroft observed, tapping said prop against the green grass.

"Does it matter? The dead do not care about funerals," Sherlock interjected impatiently. It was one of the things he would never understand about his brother; the incessant need for polite chitchat.

"There were times I worried it would be Mother standing here with me."

"I remember," Sherlock said simply, wishing they had stuck to the chitchat.

Beside him, Mycroft drained the last remnants of amber liquid from his glass and once more tapped his umbrella against the ground. In this weather he would be better off using it to shield against the sun, Sherlock thought. It was a warm day, bright with the sunshine of early summer.

"As much as it will probably pain you to hear, I…" Mycroft trailed off, clearing his throat. It was most uncharacteristic behaviour. "I know it won't matter," he began again, "but I could not be prouder of you. And _yes_, Sherlock, that is meant as a compliment."

There was nothing in his expression or posture or inflection to indicate that his brother was being anything less than truthful. Sherlock found himself being more than a little taken aback, which would excuse his earnest reply.

"It has always mattered."

_Especially when I convinced myself it didn't._

Mycroft's eyes widened a little and he looked as close to touched as Sherlock had ever seen him. He quickly looked away, his eyes instead settling on John, who was crouched down over by the marquee set up specifically to accommodate the attending mourners.

John was listening – with various exaggerated expressions of rapt attention as one was apparently supposed to do with children – to the five-year-old daughter of some relative or other. Sherlock could not for the life of him remember her name and doubted he had ever known it.

The girl was obviously very exited about the tale she was telling, which probably had everything to do with the rather unusually large Weinberg snail in her hands. Sherlock briefly wondered how the thing had become so huge; deciding that the most likely place to find an answer would be by examining the component parts of whatever fertiliser was used on the grounds. Not that he was going to do so.

Almost as if he could sense his gaze, John looked up and over at him, a smile spreading on his face. The smile tucking at his own mouth in response was completely automatic; an instinctual reaction that he had given up on repressing many years ago.

John stood up, giving the young girl's dark, curly hair a pat before he walked towards where he and Mycroft stood apart from the rest of the gathering. The girl immediately turned towards her slightly older brother, excitedly holding out the snail towards him. She received a disgusted grimace in return, which seemed to sour her mood a little. Sherlock watched as she cradled the slimy creature to her chest and stomped off in the direction of the Orangerie.

"I could be wrong, but I think I just met the world's next consulting detective," John said as he reached them, eyes bright with amusement.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's muttered 'good heavens let us hope not' and raised one hand to let it rest on top of John's suit clad shoulder.

"Maybe we should employ her."

"She'd insist on only going to the interesting cases and demand around-the-clock catering and I'd get an aneurism within the year," John teased.

Sherlock felt his smile widen. "Rubbish. We'd use her to deal with the Yard for us. The state of that place after Lestrade's retired… It's a miracle complete anarchy has yet to break out in the streets of London."

"A feat we solely have you to thank for, I'm certain," Mycroft drawled.

John snorted, looking towards the imposing house that had never really managed to become home in Sherlock's mind.

"What happens to this place now?" John asked, suddenly sounding a little wistful. Then again, they had just attended a funeral. And Sherlock knew how fond John had been of his mother. He squeezed John's shoulder a little.

"Nothing much," Mycroft said. "I assume I will be spending a little more time here, keeping an eye on things, but otherwise it'll be as always."

John nodded quietly. "I'll miss her."

"We all will," Mycroft agreed. "Mother was very fond of you, you know. And not just because of what you've done for Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it was mostly out of habit. He felt no real annoyance.

"I haven't actually actively done anything."

"You never had to," Sherlock said, fingers running over John's shoulder blade. "It's enough that you simply are."

There it was again, that look on Mycroft's face. As if he was pleased with what he saw. As if he had stopped worrying. As if he was actually proud.

This time Sherlock held his brother's gaze, hand resting firmly against John's back.


	3. Fear

Blind fear.

Fear of the kind where you do not remember your own actions; where you might do anything from running to crying to taking a life without being aware of your own actions until later and even then only sporadically. The kind of fear that makes your body and brain shut down and act on pure, undiluted instinct. He had never understood that.

He had, on occasion, even scoffed at the whole "crime of passion" lark. How weak was it not, to be so controlled by emotion that you lost track of your own actions? Your own _memory_?

He doubted it was even possible.

And yet, Sherlock had absolutely no recollection of how he had gotten off the ground that he had tumbled to together with the now unconscious criminal. Had no memory of tearing open John's shirt. Of sinking down to his knees to be able to _see_. Of taking a trembling, relieved breath. Of cursing the warm night for not leaving him with anything – scarf came to mind – to press against the wound.

Nor did he have any recollection of yanking John's shirt all the way off, cuffs snagging a little at his wrists, or of bundling it up and applying it firmly against the bleeding.

He did recall John's pained hiss and that was when Sherlock found himself on his knees in front of John, pressing a shirt against a wound that should not be there.

According to his memory there was nothing between looking up from the suspect – hand still fisted in long, greasy hair from bashing the man's head against the ground – and noticing the dark, spreading patch of blood against light blue cotton and then the hiss of pain as he applied more pressure against the bleeding.

"Sherlock! It's all right. He barely nicked me."

Sherlock did not bother to react at all. The amount of blood spoke for itself.

There was, however, also a lot of ground between 'barely nicked' and 'bleeding to death' and Sherlock knew that it _was_ going to be all right.

"Get off the damn ground, Sherlock," John ordered just as he took a slightly faltering step backwards. Sherlock looked away from where their hands were pressing against John's middle and up to his face, pulled into a pained grimace and slightly too pale. He stood back up and they moved backwards together until John could rest his weight against the brick wall.

The pained look on John's face was intensifying, but his breathing was deep and regular. Sherlock kept the pressure against the ruined shirt firm; fingers splayed over John's warm ones. Warm. That was probably a good sign. And Lestrade was going to be there with the entire cavalry any minute now.

"Is he all right?"

Sherlock ignored the still figure that he could just see out of his peripheral vision and took a step closer, his shoulder now pressing firmly against John's. He could, even in the warm night, feel the heat from John's body, could hear his in- and exhales, could smell the slight sheen of sweat at his temple from the recent exertion and opened his mouth to answer. After one long second and then another, longer one, he closed it again.

_"Unless his skull is as non-existing as his intellect your absurdly empathetic self can rest assured that he will make a full recovery."_ The words were not obeying his will and were not crossing his lips. "Yes," he said instead.

Just then a dark car belonging to Scotland Yard came speeding down the street and pulled up in front of them. Both Lestrade and Dimmock – a testament to the seriousness of the now concluded case – hurriedly exited the car.

"Why are they always five minutes late?" John asked, the question torn somewhere between annoyance and amusement and pain.

Lestrade jogged the few meters over to them and Dimmock orchestrated the arrival of three patrol cars and an ambulance.

"Bloody hell, are you all right, John?" Lestrade demanded, eyes flickering between John and the unconscious man on the ground.

"Yeah. I'm afraid I was a bit slow, but it's nothing a few stitches can't put right."

Lestrade looked as if he did not quite believe John. "Let me see."

Sherlock took another step closer to John, even though it wasn't quite possible. His nose was now brushing against John's hair and he felt like sneering at Lestrade as John batted his hands away and peeled back the shirt to reveal the long gash in his skin.

It was not bleeding as profusely as before, but it was still bleeding.

"Christ," Lestrade exclaimed. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"There's no need for that. They can patch me up perfectly well in the ambulance."

Lestrade instantly protested. "John –"

"It's just a superficial cut. I'm not going to be carded off for that."

"But –"

"John's the doctor," Sherlock interjected firmly.

"_Thank you_," John bit out and pushed himself off the wall. "About bloody time someone remembers that." He grimaced at the movement, but otherwise showed no sign of being injured at all. It was impressive and disconcerting and Sherlock kept very close as they made their way towards the ambulance, leaving Lestrade behind to deal with the still-unconscious, but no longer escaped, serial arsonist and murderer.

He watched in silence as they did, indeed, patch up John in the ambulance. It took less than ten minutes. It was already all right. It did not_ feel_anything remotely like all right. Feelings. They were loud, rebellious and irrational.

The paramedic handed John a forest green fleece jacket embroidered with the logo of the Royal London Hospital. "… and get yourself to the A&E tomorrow for a check-up."

"I will."

The paramedic gave John a sharp look. "Of course you will, doctor Watson." The emphasis on 'doctor' was very audible.

Sherlock did not believe John either. Not that he would need a check-up at the A&E. John was a doctor and the cut was not all that deep. It was all right, except for the fact that it did not feel like it.

He did not know how to fit it inside him and he did not know how to get rid of it. Everything was all right now. It should damn well leave him alone. Move on and find someone else to claw at from the inside. He was not equipped to handle that – being attacked from the inside. From the outside he was an expert. Could handle anything. But from the inside… It was too sharp.

John was standing in front of him now, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for a reply, Sherlock realised.

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Fine."

Concern furrowed John's brow, eyes sweeping over him.

"Do you have some water?" John asked the paramedic in the ambulance.

John was handed a bottle of water and turned back towards him. Sherlock had no idea what the water was intended for and was apparently also quite unable to make an educated guess as he gauged the large white plaster visible underneath the unseasonable jacket that John had not bothered zipping.

John held out a hand between them. "Your hands."

Sherlock looked down. Oh. He had blood on his hands. Quite literally.

He had John's blood on his hands. They were shaking. "My hands are shaking." Sherlock sounded surprised even to his own ears.

John unscrewed the water bottle and poured the contents out over his upturned palms before scrubbing them dry with a towel that must also have come from the ambulance. He was very meticulous about it and, once released, Sherlock found that his hands were completely clean. In the literal sense, at least, if not the figurative.

"Much better," John said and offered him a small smile.

"Yes." He held John's gaze insistently, holding on to the unconcerned calm there. Was emotional osmosis possible? Sherlock wished it was so that_loud_ and _rebellious_ and _irrational _might absorb some of that unconcerned calm.

_You can't. You can't get hurt and you can't not be all right. I can't do this without you anymore. I've forgotten how to. Maybe I've deleted it. It doesn't matter, the result is the same… You can't not be all right. You can't do that to me. You can't put me through that. You can't ever not be all right._

"Please don't ever do that." Sherlock knew he couldn't possibly be making any sense to John, but he needed to say something and that was what he was able to say.

"Do what?"

Sherlock did not offer any clarification, but simply continued holding John's gaze until he gave a brisk nod and looked away, handing back the wet, blood-stained towel to the paramedic.

"Come on, let's get ourselves home," John said.

"Yes."

Concerned offers of being chauffeured home in a police car were waved off and promises to honour paperwork still needed made and they were on their way, gliding through London in a silent cab where _irrational_ filled up the confined space cold and hard and far beyond the holding capacity of the vehicle.

Standing just inside their flat he hesitated briefly, almost about to say something, but changed his mind and by then John had already disappeared to the bathroom anyway.

It was completely irrational. Everything was all right. It was over and done with. Yet it would not let go of him.

John did not comment on the completely unnecessary fire crackling away once he returned. Sherlock wanted to ask John to join him, to not go off to bed, but remained silent. He doubted that John would understand the request when Sherlock could not even find the words to explain to himself.

But John did not go off to bed. He made himself comfortable in the living room, keeping him quiet company. Maybe he understood. Of course he understood, Sherlock amended. John always understood and he always quietly – silently – accommodated him.

He was too kind.

As much as Sherlock felt grateful – and he felt immensely grateful – that John understood him without words and never pushed him to verbalise or explain or elaborate, he could not help but think that maybe he was having it too easy.

Maybe if John was less patient with him, less accepting, less understanding… Maybe if John pushed him to talk more, to act more then he could become more, become better, more human, more… John's.

But John did not push and he did not talk. They just sat and eventually even the fireplace grew quiet.


	4. Home

He hated every time it happened. He absolutely, outrageously _hated _it.

Almost as much as he hated the diagnosis he had been given. The diagnosis he knew was spot on.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Thankfully many left out that last word. In common speak it was always just Post-Traumatic Stress.

While Ella may have gotten it wrong and he may have a somewhat dubious need for danger and thrills, at night, in his subconscious, the war very much haunted him.

John lowered his hands from his eyes, the sudden absence of pressure sending a few lightning bolt lines running wild behind his eyelids. He supposed he should be thankful that it wasn't worse. Hell, he _was_ thankful. He was a doctor, after all, and while it may not be his area of expertise he knew enough to know just how debilitating the condition could be. He had got off very lightly, all things considered. It was even getting better and he knew exactly whom he had to thank for that.

Apropos Sherlock, John wondered whether or not the man was likely to be asleep. He knew that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again and he could do with a cup of tea.

The sounds of mortars, gunfire and the bellowing hiss of an airstrike were still too loud in his head, mixing with the smell of burnt flesh and the taste of scorching dust. He really just wanted a cup of tea. Sherlock could deal with it. After all, it was not as if he didn't occasionally wake him up at night, making far worse rackets than boiling a bit of water would.

He resolutely stood up, changed his clammy nightshirt to a fresh one and padded down the stairs.

Sherlock wasn't asleep and for a moment John hovered in the doorway, taking in the sight of the flat, illuminated only by the streetlamps out on Baker Street and the artificial glow of a laptop screen.

He only had vague ideas of what it was Sherlock actually _did_ when he didn't sleep. Then again, it was still early days, living with the genius madman. He was still only settling in and getting used to his flatmate's – his friend's – strange habits and eccentric ways.

As he walked into the flat, closing the door behind him, John noticed that it was _his_ laptop Sherlock was tapping away on, several heavy tomes and stray sheets of papers scattered around him on the perpetually cluttered desk. John let out a small sigh of exasperation, but otherwise held his tongue. He _had _been at Baker Street long enough to realise that that particular war was long lost.

Sherlock did not look up from whatever it was he was doing as he spoke. "Joining me?"

"Yeah, well… Couldn't sleep."

There was a minute faltering in the typing and John could feel Sherlock's eyes following him the rest of his way into the kitchen.

"You want tea?" he asked, turning the kettle on.

"Please."

John made tea in silence, finding some comfort in the familiar process as he once again disproved that 'watched pot never boils'.

As he deposited the second cup of tea on the only unoccupied patch of desk within sight Sherlock produced a plate with three small custard pies seemingly out of nowhere and held it out towards him.

John knew those pies. Sherlock had been going through Mrs Hudson's fridge. Again.

"Do you want one or not?" Sherlock argued before he had even opened his mouth.

John sighed his disapproval and then completely negated it by taking a pie off the plate.

"Thank you." That was not what he was supposed to be saying. "You can't keep doing that," he tried instead.

"She likes me," Sherlock shrugged as if that settled everything. John sat down on the sofa and eyed _his_ laptop in front of his flatmate, realising that it probably did.

Sherlock looked up, meeting his unintentional staring. His eyes were completely colourless, his face a collection of shadows and hollows in the unforgiving glow of the computer screen. "I have no idea, do I?"

The slow, soft-spoken question took him completely by surprise and for a long moment all he could do was sit and look back. "I hope not," he eventually said.

_You're a civilian, even if you don't think of yourself that way. You're not supposed to know. That's the whole point – you, never having to know. And that's the tragedy in Afghanistan. They do know. Even the children know. _

Sherlock nodded once, almost imperceptibly and returned his attention to the laptop.

The comfort of tea and Mrs Hudson's frankly sinful pie made him more drowsy than he would have thought possible and he closed his eyes, leaning further back in the sofa, hands curled around his warm cup. Sherlock's quick typing sounded a bit like falling rain. It was almost peaceful.

He must have dosed off, but was roused by phantom hands plucking the cold cup from his own. A long moment passed in which the floorboards in front of him creaked under the indecisive weight of another person. The presence did not feel threatening, though and John found himself sliding easily towards sleep again until an annoyed, resigned sigh reached the edges of his mind. And then there was something light but scratching fanned out around him, stirring the air and settling over him as a comfortable weight.

He finally fell asleep to the soft pad of feet across the floor and the light sound of rain.


End file.
